


The Burdens We Share

by Soup1039



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canon Related, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Medical Inaccuracies, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, medical AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22529254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soup1039/pseuds/Soup1039
Summary: Amelie Lacroix is a 32 year old, famous ballet dancer, who eventually begins to experience muscle tremors and signs of a worsening illness. Angela Ziegler is a 36 year old doctor who's known her own set of hardships, losing not one, but two, lovers in the course of her career. When these two meet because of Amelie's worsening condition, a spark is made, and together, these two learn that perhaps, hidden under the scarring of a life lived alone and the bonds of a challenging career, that burdens are meant to be beared together.Note: I am in no way a medical professional. Please correct me if you see any medical inaccuracies that I can correct. Also notethe rating is subject to change as we continue deeper into the story, due to smut and possible graphic descriptions of procedures.
Relationships: Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter One: Amelie's Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have an editor so I've been sightreading this stuff! Comment any errors or just general inaccuracies you see so I can correct them. Thanks! Critiques are always welcome :).

In the summer of my 32nd year on Earth, I had begun to trip. It was little things, here and there, just occasionally stumbling. My calves began to swell, and I saw a doctor, but was assured it was probably due to my constant ballet and endurance practice. I believed the doctor, until the tripping started to occur more often. My balance was so offset, I could hardly do ballet without trembling, barely holding on as I tried to continue. Eventually, I went to the emergency room, and was stuck in a room for a while. Here is where my story begins.  
“I assure you, Dr.Ziegler, I am perfectly fine. My other doctor, Dr.McWatters, instructed me to ease off of ballet and it would subside. I’m sure that is all it is,” I give a persuading smile to Dr.Ziegler from my hospital bed, gesturing around with my hands.  
“Ms.Lacroix, do you have anyone at home that could take care of you?” The doctor looks at me curtly for a moment before glaring down at her paper, jotting some notes.  
“No, but what does that have to do with it?” I knit my eyebrows. Sure, I was alone, but I had been all of my adult life. If the question was if I could take care of myself, it'd be a definite “yes”. End of story.  
“Due to your tremors and offset balance, I can not let you out of my care in good conscience. If you were to fall at home due to these ailments, it would be my fault. I want you to stay for a few more days so I can run some tests, if that’s alright.”  
I roll my eyes. I’m perfectly capable of myself, but apparently the doctor can’t see it. “But I have ballet rehearsal. I can’t miss it.” I put on the best concerned face I had, as if I’m totally worried the best, most wanted ballet dancer in the world, would be unable to pick up a job on a whim.  
Dr.Ziegler scrounges through her papers again, tapping her pen at a paragraph she finds. “It says here, in layman’s terms, you have one of the best insurance money can buy, not to mention your ballet company gives some of the best benefits offered.” She raises an eyebrow. “ Vision, dental, medical, emergencies, paid vacation and medical leave… Schessie you’ve even got eight months of maternity leave.” The doctors rambling to herself now, looking at my paperwork. She blinks and snaps her head back up to me, smiling broadly. “I’m sure, considering these factors, you’ll be fine to take a week or two off. Plus, I’ve heard it's the off season for ballet. Doesn’t that mean you’re only practicing to stay in shape?” She grins at me with a cock of her head and I begrudgingly nod at her comment.  
“Can I least go retrieve my stuff from my apartment?” I scowl. Might at least try to get a taste of freedom for a few minutes if I can.  
“Unless you have family or friends to pick up your belongings, or extremely important documents that you’re required to have, I can’t allow you to leave. We have phone chargers here, as well as some recreational items. One of the perks of our large facility is that the building directly across the street from this one is our long term care unit. It houses all of our long term patients, and allows you to have some more freedom then in this facility. Here's a pamphlet. A nurse will come to take you over in around 20 minutes.” Dr.Ziegler looked at me sternly from the rims of her glasses, giving off a tone that could only be categorized as the type that my mother gave me as a child when I needed scolding. Its a sudden shift from the charismatic sun beam i've come to know, and for the strangest reason it strikes a pang in my heart.  
“And let me guess, you’re the main doctor of that place,” I grumble, crossing my arms.  
Dr.Ziegler beams at me, popping her pen into her pocket. “Yes, yes I am. I’m just here because the other doctor got sick. Anyways, I must be going. I do have other patients, you know. I’ll check up on you tomorrow morning.” And with that, Dr.Ziegler practically skips out my room. In a moment, she sticks her head in again, startling me with a little jolt. “Oh and Amelie, please stop crossing your arms. You’ll knock the IV out of place.” I glare at her until she leaves, finally uncrossing my arms to retrieve my things and let out a breath. Angela made me feel the queerest way, and that heart pang is the first thing I think of when she leaves. It wasn’t pain, no, not even anxiety. Instead, I felt as if my heart was yearning for a connection, for something that could comfort me and make amends to the life of solitude I’ve lived in for nearly a decade. Of course, it was silly, and I shake my head at the tangent my brain went on. It wasn’t anything to acknowledge I tell myself, probably just a minor symptom of a flu or something of the sort.  
By the time I’ve fully cleared any thoughts of being attracted to the doctor—I made up reasons why I certainly couldn’t have even a remotely small crush on her, reason 24 being the patient-doctor relationship rules—a tiny lady, with curly, dark blonde, hair tossed in a huge half bun on her head, dressed in baby blue scrubs, walks in with a wheelchair.  
“Hi, I’m Abigail.”She says with a smile as she shakes my hand firmly. “I’m going to have to take out your IV for the trip over to the other facility, can see I your arm?” With a silent motion I move so she can pull the line out of me. It’s an awkward silence, one Abigails compensating with by chattering insistently. She helps me into a wheelchair once she sets aside the IV pole and slips on a new pair of gloves, then stops the one sided conversation as we start to move. I’m carefully shuffled down the halls, an elevator, carted across the street, and deposited into a waiting room in the other facility. Abbys been silent the whole ride over, but she tells me she’ll be back and disappears behind a pair of staff only doors, reappearing with an even bigger grin after a few minutes, brandishing a key and lanyard in her hand. It’s a wonder how such a tiny woman can contain so much excitement.  
After handing me my key, Abby steps behind my wheelchair again, and we’re off, her ramblings now comforting in the cold, clinical, room. “So, there’s actually six floors to this facility. The more critical patients and hospice care are on the lower floors, where the main med bay is closer. We used to have a lot of psych patients, but they got moved to another place, somewhere down the street. McHallen medical? Something like that,” Abby continues, pushing me through a hall, into an elevator, and hitting the 5th floor button. “Anywho, you'll be on the fifth floor. There's about, mm, 30 other patients? The 5th-6th floor patients are usually ones where the doctor just wants to keep a close eye or run some tests on ‘em.” The elevator dings and Abby starts to push me down the hall. It smells sterile, as if everything has been doused in a good coat of bleach before my arrival. Doors line the hall, and I can faintly see an open area with raspberry colored couches and tables at the end of it. “What's your key number? 16A? Oh, you’re pretty far down then. Right near this floor’s nurse ward. There’s one on every floor just in case of emergencies and so food and that can be distributed easily.” Abbys chattering stops as we reach the door, and she leans over to open it. I’m dragged into the room, and unceremoniously plopped on the bed in the corner. “You’ll notice that this place’s pretty barren. Feel free to fill it up. Since you’re a low care patient, the rec area has scissors and that for crafts. Anyways, a nurse will be in here soon to instruct you on moving the IV pole yourself, and to reinstall it. They should also give you a schedule and everything you need to know, so you can be back in this room for whatever testing Doc’s ordered. Any questions?” She ask with a tick of her head and a smile.  
“Will testing be in this room, or do I have to go to a specific one?” Surely taking, for example, a blood test in my room would be severely unsanitary.  
“Mm, it depends on what Doc’s got you scheduled for.” Abby bites her lip in thought for a moment. “Usually smaller things, like IV additions, motor tests, that sorta stuff will be in your room. Makes it easier to keep track of what you’ve done testing wise if we just have to jot it down for a single room y’know? Other, more equipment heavy, items will be done on floor one. You’ll be escorted by a nurse just to make sure you don’t hurt yourself, since you are technically a patient and due to liability issues you’re not allowed to be alone without any supervision unless you’re in a controlled area. It’d be far too easy for you to just scooch out the hospital by the elevator because nobody would think anything of it. It was mainly a precaution when the psych patients were here, but we still keep it for whatever reason. In any case, like I said, larger stuff like MRI’s, CAT scans, X-rays, are all done on the main floor with the large, centralized medbay.”  
Abby ticks off these items on her hands, continuing on with some, more foreign and confusing, acronyms and tests. She turns to leave but I speak up for a moment, raising an eyebrow.  
“Before you leave, I just have one question: what’s a motor test?” It sounds like something my grandfather would have had, not even something for “low care patients.”  
“Oh, well there’s a sorta checklist, a chart even, that doctors use to decide if a patient should be moved to lower floors. One of the items is what we call a motor test: if you’re unable to be fully mobile without assistance, or a cane or walker, then you’re most likely going to be moved down. We also test things like your fine motor control then, because it can be a great indicator of a larger problem. Does that explain it?” Abby’s bubbling at me, explaining everything with ease. I nod and gesture for her to go, and with a turn and a push of the wheelchair out the entrance, Abby’s out the entrance, giving a quick wave before shutting the door with a quiet click.  
After she leaves, I begin to take a look around my so called new home. The room is far more white then sterile, I notice quickly. The bed is pushed into the far corner by a window I can’t open, and it has the typical not-so-soft sheets. Sure, they’re better than the regular hospital’s comforter and blanket, but it’s still far scratchier than I’m used to. A desk with a chair bolted to the ground resides in the opposite corner, and a TV blares some random news channel. A quick inspection of the drawers next to my bed reveal room for clothing and the remote, as well as a plain watch. Probably so I won’t be late for my “testing”. Above the drawer is a lamp and a space for another outlet. At least I’ll be able to charge my phone here, I muse.  
By the time I’d gotten acquainted with my new home and sat down on my bed, another nurse, this one male and hulking, walks in and shakes my hand. “Hi, I’m Nurse Devin and I’m here to introduce you to the facility.” He smiles and sits down next to me, opening a manilla folder and putting down a bag he’d brought with him. “You’re Amelie, right?” When all Devin gets in response is a curt nod, he continues. “Mm it says here you’re gonna be here for about a week, just to check out your tremors and that. Since you’ll be here that long, I’ve got some stuff for you. Here's your clothes, and a hamper to put them in. There's also a bag of toiletries in here, and menstruation items. There's seven outfits, and we wash them once every five to six days, so you can just keep the clean outfits on you. Down the hall there's a shower room and bathroom, and we encourage you to take a shower once a day. We do have mandatory room checks every week, just for dangerous material that you could use to harm someone, so we would prefer if you fold your outfits. It’s a lot easier to check folded clothes then a heap of dirty ones,” Devin laughs, and I merely roll my eyes in response. “The rec room down there is open all day, but there's an 11pm curfew. We serve food in there too. Breakfast is served at eight, lunch at one, and dinner at seven. It’s mandatory to eat two meals a day, but you can skip one. A lot of people choose not to eat breakfast so they can sleep in. In any case, we noted you needed a phone charger so here’s a few, as we weren’t sure what phone you had. Here’s your schedule. Appointments are in bright red, meals in green, designated sleeping time in blue, and free time in purple. The watch that was in the topmost drawer-oh I see you’ve already gotten it-can be used to make sure you’re on time for appointments. As you can tell, the rooms pretty dull. Although you won’t be here for long, feel free to go to the rec room and make some crafts to decorate.” Devin stands and hands me the schedule, pulling out the hamper with what I assume to be my toiletries and clothes, then deposits it by the bed. “Oh, and I believe you’re getting the IV tomorrow. I’m not sure, but from what I’ve read, you’re getting enzyme testing, so we’ll need to put you on an IV to be able to identify the specific stuff we’re looking for.” With an awkward shrug and wave, Devin’s gone, and I’m left alone to fare for myself.


	2. Chapter Two: Angela's Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An

“Enzyme testing, are you crazy?” Moira scoffs, shoving my testing schedule for Amelie down on the table. “She's 32 Angela, not some 80 year old hag. It’s probably just a thing where she's dehydrated and worked her ass off with her ballet. All these tests are absurd.”  
“Well, she’s under my jurisdiction as a patient. You have no right to criticize me. The testing I have called for is based on my set of precautionary measures, and I can do what I wish. This is Amelie’s second time reporting this problem, so I’m going to treat it as something larger then it most likely is. I’m recommending Amelie for enzyme testing to see if there is a possibility of muscular degeneration, as well as to check her liver and kidneys. If she’s really just dehydrated, there could be a problem with the absorption of nutrients, or, perhaps, she’s really just drained. The blood test will measure the amount of nutrients in her blood to ensure that proper circulation is occurring. The MRI will scan her brain for unusual activity and to make sure her cerebellum isn’t being disrupted by a tumor or neurological dysfunction. I am going to run these tests on Ms.Lacroix, and you can do nothing to stop me. Have I made myself clear, Dr.Deorian?” I pick up my testing schedule and glare at Moira, challenging her to disagree.  
“Crystal.” She grumbles, turning to her computer to input appointments for my scheduled tests. I blare a smug white smile at her, turning on my heel to walk over to the long term care facility. I’m back there today, hopefully for the long term, as the doctor who was sick has recovered. My key card jangles as I walk through the doors, waving to the fellow doctors and nurses. Typically I’m in the lower floors, but now I’ve been relocated to levels 5 and 6. How ironic that Ms.Lacroix now resided in my domain now, I muse, stepping into the elevator and pushing the button for the 5th floor. There’s an office on each level, with space for two doctors in it. I’m mainly going to be residing alone, as the patients here were low care unit ones, and I’m an experienced doctor. All I need is a computer and a coffee machine to be able to give the best medical care, not an office fit for a CEO. Those are reserved for TV doctors, I giggle, thinking of the blown up medical professionals with their reality shows and plastic smiles.  
I pass patients in the hallway down towards my new office, most of them new faces. The only downside of having low care patients is that I never have enough time to get to know them well, especially the ones who only stay for a week or two as a precautionary standard…. Such a shame that Amelie won’t be here for long, I think, sighing a little as I open the door to my office. I shake my head in denial, remembering that I can’t have even decided to remotely like Amelie in the short moments we’d met. I shiver the thought away, if only because the office was cold, and hopefully the space heater I kick on as soon as I’d enter will warm the room. My laptop is plopped on the desk in the far corner, and I maneuver the chairs that were stacked in a neat pile into something that could resemble a physician's consultation room.  
A few days later, I realize I have an appointment with Amelie scheduled later in the day. My heart pangs at the sight of seeing her again, but I shake my head: she is my patient, nothing more, nothing less. In any case, the results have just come in for her enzyme testing, and so had the liver and kidney function tests so I ought to be looking over those instead of daydreaming, I chide myself. I grab my laptop and bag, and head downstairs to the mailroom. My results are laying in a neat manilla folder labelled “Lacroix, Amelie” , categorized in my small, wooden, mailbox. Turning on my heel, I snatch them up and walk towards the faculty room. A cup of coffee is quickly warmed as I set my bag and folder down, and by the time I’m settled, the mugs freshly hot and smells godly, especially to my sleep deprived brain. The folder is thicker than I would’ve expected, and when I open it, I nearly spit out my drink. In bright red, the words “IMMEDIATE ACTION RECOMMENDED” are circled. My frown deepens as I start to read the outcome of all the tests Ive ordered for Ms.Lacroix. The enzyme testing with CPK came back with well above average results, and the levels of Transaminase were those of someone who was experiencing the beginning stages of liver dysfunction. I look up and saw Dr.O'Deorain across the room, and I grab my files and storm over to her.  
“What in hell’s name is this?” I seeth, slamming down the results.  
“Your results, doctor.” She blinks her eyes innocently in response, giving a smirk behind her coffee.  
I sputter. “These are wildly inaccurate. This is levels of enzymes that are associated with muscular dystrophy, and Ms.Lacroix most certainly doesn't have that, let alone muscle problems. Hell, she’s a ballet dancer! Her medical records show a clean bill of health her entire life. She wasn’t even born premature.” I wave my hands around, justifying how wrong the answers to the tests were by my medical knowledge.  
“Yes, however, I did what you asked. Perhaps Ms.Lacroix has a virus or bacterial infection. Often those levels of enzymes could be associated with that or a heavy alcohol intake.” Dr.O’Deorain’s tone was nonchalant, as if she could care less. It pisses me off how cool and collected she is.“You did ask for these tests. I’m only relaying the information.” She smugly smirks at me and I blink before crossing my arms.  
“Well, Dr.O’Deorain, since you’re so confident in ‘relaying the information’, what would be the course of action you propose we take?”  
“I would administer a DNA test to measure the lengths of her axons and genes. If Ms.Lacroix has muscular dystrophy, we could easily see it by the removal of the dystrophin chromosome. There has been one or two cases where the disease didn’t appear until late adulthood, due to the patients exercise routine and other influencing genes and factors. I suppose a bacterial test should also be given to assess the amount of excess antibodies, as well as the health of the liver. After another week, give Ms.Lacroix a sobriety test and remeasure the enzymes. By this time, the alcohol should be completed removed from her system, and the enzymes should return to a normal state. If you’d liks, I can even recommend some research papers that prove my point.” Dr.O’Deorain gave me a smug glance before grabbing a piece of paper off the table, flourishing it eloquently.  
I breath out my nostrils, furious, but I contain it to save myself from exploding in front of my coworkers. “That… sounds wonderful. I’m sure you can schedule that for me, right?” I smirk with all the self control I could muster, blinking innocently.  
Dr.O’Deorain’s smile fell. “I, uh, yes I can do that,” She stutters in response, clearly surprised that I accepted her answer.  
“Thank you. That’s so generous, and kind, of you. Now, if you excuse me, I have to go inform Ms.Lacroix.” I’m practically snarling, spitting out the corners of my mouth. My heels turned of their own accord, and on my way from stopping out the door, I swept up the files in my left hand.  
The walk to the long term patient facility is a short one, which is both a blessing and a curse. I don’t have to face the icy wind for long, but on the other hand, I barely have enough time to cool my anger into something manageable. By the time I take the elevator and slam down the files in my office-I’m going to inspect them later, as I’m sure they’re wildly incorrect in some shape or form-I'm frustrated, but to a point where a reassuring smile could displace my harsh ambience to anyone. I swish down the hall and knock on the door to Amelie’s room, taking a deep breath and adjusting my lab coat to, again, give off a comforting tone.   
“Come in,” a muffled voice calls from the other side of the door, and I slowly open it as not to disturb anyone in the room. I blink in shock as I look around and melt into the world of decorations Amelie’s created. There’s meticulously made snowflakes strung around the top edges of the room, and tiny, intricate, ones laced with blue glitter scattered on the walls. The TV’s set on a Hallmark movie, and the usually barren desk in the corner has a blanket draped over it. A single fall candle burns slowly on top of it-god only knows how Amelie got it, most of those items are banned since they’re hazards-and the whole room smells of cinnamon and comfort. Amelie is poised underneath the covers of her bed, leaning up against the wall behind her. She’s as beautiful as I last saw her, if not more, and the hint of a smile she plays on her lips entrances me somehow even deeper.  
“Hi, uh, would you mind if I sit here?” I gesture to the chair attached to the desk, trying to keep my voice steady and blush from arousing on my cheeks for an entirely different reason.  
Amelie shrugs. “Sure, as long as you don’t mind the blanket.” Her tone is litted, a happy little note resounding around the soothing ambience of her room. I would melt if it wouldn't be an entire violation of the hippocratic oath.  
As I sit down, I realize something’s different about Amelie. Whether it’s the way she shyly tucks a single strand of hair behind her ear, or perhaps how she’s trying to elegantly hide her legs underneath the covers, theres something that changed. Now, however, is not the time to contemplate my patient/doctor relationships, I scold myself as I take out a piece of paper and pen from my pocket. “So we’re going to have to recommend you for further testing, I’m afraid. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions so we can give you a clear diagnosis.” While my face is clear and clinical, Amelie’s is a torrent of emotions. Her eyes flash with anger, then disbelief, then something else I can't quite place before a larger smile paints upon her lips.  
“Sure. Yes, I mean, that would be fine.” Amelie can't conceal her tone fully, especially from me, a doctor trained in the toughest soldiers and cracked masks of pain. She’s scared, I can hear it, and for some strange reason, I want to pull her close and make her feel at home, to shield her from the monster of an unknown diagnosis. However, the only thing I can do is be truthful, as it’s the only way I can protect her and not fail the oath I’ve sworn in so many years ago.   
I click my pen and set it down on the desk, preparing to take some notes. “Have you drank alcohol in the past two weeks?” My tone is clinical, the same one I used in my residency when I was a general physician.  
“No.” Amelie’s answers are curt, and for some reason I can’t explain, it shocks me into uncomfortable waters. There’s something about her being resilient to me, being cold and as clinical as I am, that makes me uncomfortable. It’s a matter for another time, I remind myself, clearing my throat.   
“Have you experienced any flu-like symptoms before your admittance?”  
“No.”  
“How much have you exercised in the week before your admittance?”  
A shrug. “Two to three hours a day, give or take a little.” It’s the most I’ve gotten out of Amelie since my visit, and part of me is relieved that I’m still on semi good grounds with her.  
“Has anything changed since your admittance?”  
A beat. “No.” Amelie hesitates on this answer, and I can feel her fighting to keep what she really means to herself. I won’t prod on this one, I’ve already treaded too far into her comfort zone to be safe.  
“One last question,” I smile, joking with her as much as I can in our professional relationship. “Have you used prescription drugs, narcotics, over the counter medication, or anything of that sort in the past week? Don’t worry, we’re obliged by law to keep your answer confidential if you say you used something illegal,” I grin, stopping immediately as Amelie frowns. “Not that I mean y’know that you would do those things, I-I just have to ask as a precautionary statement,” I scramble to fix my mistake, and Amelie chuckles. It’s a hearty thing that lifts a weight off my hammering heart, making me blush a little. I brush a strand of hair behind my ear to avoid her gazing blue eyes, and smile slightly.  
“No, I haven’t,” Amelie states, fiddling with her watch when I finally look up. The silence is thick now, an uncomfortable monster in the room full of unsaid words and yearning hearts. I breathe out to relieve some of the pressure, standing quickly to exit the room.   
“Well, thank you for your answers. They’ll certainly assist in getting you a diagnosis,” I smile and put a hand on the door. There’s no response to my words, and I resist the urge to frown at that, as well as squander my thoughts of “What did I do wrong?”. Our relationship is purely professional that’s all, I remind myself as I open the door.  
In my thoughts, I almost miss Amelie’s quiet words from behind me as I go to walk out the door. With a hushed whisper, she says “I’ve starting have tremors. In my hands and feet sometimes.” I turn and look at her, but she doesn’t meet my look, choosing to fixate on her lap instead.   
“How often do they occur?” I'm quiet too, like I’m comforting a wounded animal in need, one that’s scared of getting too close or having a comforting touch. I step over to Amelie with caution, placing a hand on the wall, just close enough to be not quite friendly.   
“They used to be once every few days. Now I have them three or four times a day. They’ve been getting worse,” Amélie looks ashamed, gazing up at me like a child caught in the act of doing something they shouldn’t.   
“Are you able to walk without any difficulty?” Before I even finish, Amelie shakes her head.  
“Sometimes I can’t even stand properly,” There's a silence between us at those words and I make a noise, as if in thought.  
“It may be a problem with your muscles trying to adjust after such a physically demanding lifestyle. I’ll look into it,” I smile with assurance, trying to mask my concern. Patients don’t just get muscle tremors; there's always a cause, and usually a concerning one at that. However, freaking out Amelie wouldn’t do any good, and would likely make her feel as though she couldn’t tell me what was ailing her. The human mind is a fickle thing, one that drives away from unknown fear at every opportunity, even at the risk of pain or illness, and the last thing I want is for Amelie to shut me out because of an inbred, primitive, thought. “For now, I’ll commission you a cane, so you can still maintain your freedom and mobility.” With another friendly smile, I turn on my heel and go to leave. “Have a good rest of your day Amelie,” I grin over my shoulder as I leave and close the door, breathing out with a sigh as I tramp to my office to investigate the possible causes of the tremors and to schedule a test for muscle density. I have time before I was to see other patients, so I might as well use it, I think with a nod.


	3. Chapter 3: Amelies perspective

It’s barely any time at all before the cane Angela’s decided to commission me for comes in. A simple thing, it’s made of slick black metal with a rubber grip and has four “feet” on the bottom for stability. It’s very nice, I’ll admit, although I certainly don’t need a cane; I have muscle tremors, barely even noticeable ones at that, not cancer or a stroke. Angela is just overly cautious, and kind of cute, I think as my mind drifts to other places. I shake my head; you can’t have a crush on your doctor. While thinking of all those cliche and poorly produced tv shows about medical scandals and romance, I snort. If those are supposed to be the best attempt at doctor-patient relationships, I certainly couldn’t have any feelings for Angela, considering we barely know each other.  
I decide to walk down to the rec area with my new crutch of sorts-and, I do have to admit, keep my mind off the doctor . On seeing me scoot down the hall, Andre, armed with a muffin, immediately points it out and laughs.  
“Ay, you’ve got a neat assistant there, is it supposed to help you with ballet or something?” He spews muffin chunks out with every word, and takes another bite even as he practically chokes with laughter. His deep chocolatey brown eyes crinkle with every word, and somehow he manages to drag a smile out of me. It’s a small one at that, but I can practically feel Andre teasing me about his victory over making me seem happy.   
“Where did you even get that muffin?” I scoff playfully, avoiding the subject and sitting down next to him. Andre’s nice, in the annoying best friend type of way. He’s hispanic and speaks with a slight accent, as well as practically brags about his “pure, rich, spanish heritage” at every opportunity. I can practically hear him leaning over slyly and whispering “Amy, did you know I’m actually a descendant of a gorgeous mexican prince?” as if it’s his best quality. In short,I like him.   
There's no real reason for Andre’s stay, it's just that, according to him at least, his doctor’s full of meridia and is being super cautious over his ankle that he sprained two weeks ago.  
“Ah there's the playful Amelie I know and love,” He grins, all teeth and happiness, wagging his finger at me with a sly chiding tone. “But I can't tell you all my secrets. All I’ll say is that sweatpants are roomy enough to conceal a lotta stuff if you know what I mean,” He waggles his eyebrows at me and I roll my eyes before turning away. Andre jabs me in the ribs as I go to pull a box of colored pencils off of the table, and I yelp a little before staring him down menacingly. “So, how’s that cute doctor i always see you looking at?” I don't answer, and, instead, blush a little and turn away. Andre raises his eyebrows. “Ohh, I see how it is. Trying to keep it down low for your future girlfriend right?” I blink in surprise and shove at his shoulders.  
“She's not my girlfriend Andre, for the last time.” My harsh words bounce off of Andre, and the only response I get is a knowing, shit eating, grin from him. I can feel my blush heighting to a palpable point, and I stare down at a blank piece of paper as I pull it out of the bin next to me.  
“Ooh, you like her. You only get that tone whenever you’re trying to hide something.” Andre’s muffin is polished off with a quick bite, and he stands, smacks me hard on the back, and starts hobbling toward his room. “I’ll leave you alone now Carina, but just remember: The doctor won’t be here for long, so you better ask her out soon!” He calls this over his shoulder, finally disappearing from view. I scowl and start coloring a flower, trying to desperately distract myself from Andre’s words. He was right in a way, I suppose. Angela could leave anytime to the other levels of the facility, and I’d never see her again, especially if I’m released. When I’m released, I correct myself. Sure, staying would be a good excuse to see the doctor, and her beautiful blue eyes, and that brightening smile…. Shit, I mumble as I realize my thoughts have drifted and I gave myself a paper cut on the flower I was cutting out. Angela is your doctor, she isn’t into you, and she’s definitely straight, I remind myself, sucking on the tip of the finger I’ve cut. Not to mention she’s just being overly cautious—I’ve noticed the building of a long term facility has given the doctors more caution than an Omnic in Kings Row, especially for the patients like me where there’s not a firm diagnosis—as all doctors should be. She doesn’t care about me, like everyone else, I remind myself, shoulders slumping a little as I finish chopping the flower out. It’s shaky, my muscles trembling enough to make the task a challenge, and I droop over my failure; That is, until someone heaves me back in my seat. Ashely(I find it funny all my friends names start with A. Andre calls us the “A Team”, the “A Triplets,” and the “Broken Ass Trio”, and, to my great displeasure, I grumble and smile everytime.) stares up at me with a smile that could barely fit through the door. She’s got a short pixie cut with the sides shaved, and, as she always reminds me, is the resident lesbian of the facility. What Ashely has is terminal—she insists it is, since there’s only a 2% chance of it being cured—and it’s a sad sort of happiness that she brandishes whenever she walks into the room. She’ll be transferred to the lower floors soon; I can tell by the way that she staggers through the halls on shaky legs, even her bulging muscles slowly sagging and her face becoming more and more gaunt each day. In any case, Ashley insists she’s fine, and I can only hope that lie will come true one day.  
“Hey hey hey, no moping about that doc alright?” Ashely is breathing hard, and slouches into the seat next to mine where Andre was just sitting.  
“I’m not I’m ju-“ A hand clamps over my mouth and the rest of my sentence is muffled as Ashely stares me down with an eyebrow raised.  
“Yeah yeah I know: “I'm just relaxing and I’m tired,” she mocks me, rolling her eyes and finally removing her hand from my mouth. “Save it. We both know you got the hots for Angie, and I don’t blame you. She’s cute, caring, and—Jesus what’s another word that starts with C?Charismatic? Yeah, there we go. Not my type but for you? I can see it.” Ashley is precariously brandishing some scissors with her left hand, leaning on her right arm and fluttering her eyelashes at me. My only response is to scoff.  
“I think you’re just reflecting what you feel onto me,” I smirk. It’s a stretch, especially since once, late at night, Ashely told me she was into fellow butch lesbians or very strong women. Angela wouldn’t be her type.  
“I think that’s the furthest thing from the truth that you’ve told me Amélie Lacroix, apart from the fact that you tried to tell me that you’re straight.” Ashley blinks and scores a knowing look at me, and I shake my head.  
“Well, Ashley Belmonte, maybe I just don’t want to proclaim my sexuality as my main personality trait.” I’m smirking as I say this, and Ashley gasps. I love playing these games with her, if not for the flirtatious and playful tone we take on during them, but for the glimmer in Ashley’s eyes when I give her a truly challenging remark to comeback.   
“I’m appalled. Perhaps I’m just trying to find love since I know how absolutely gorgeous I am. Maybe if you possessed mwah’s gifts, then you would use them and get that doctor to date you.” Ashely smirks, and she knows she’s hit a soft spot for me, one that’s hard to respond to.  
My mouth gapes but no words come out, and Ashley’s eyes glimmer with victory. Before she can jeer out a response, I spew the first thing that comes to mind, and I immediately know it’s a mistake. “Well at least I don’t have an ego so big I can’t even accept a cane so I don’t get transferred to the lower floors.” Ashley blushes and frowns, before hissing at me lowly.  
“Big words for the one who’s essentially reenacting greys anatomy,” she seethes, and I roll my eyes.  
“Bitch,” I mutter, not quite knowing if it’s a joke or not myself. Ashley blinks and before I know it she’s standing and gripping my hair like a doll, and I wheeze out.  
“Bottom,” she responds, cracking a smile as my eyes flutter, before releasing me. I rub my scalp, it hurts and burns a little from where Ashely’s tugged it.  
“You’d have the same response to someone practically yanking your hair out of your scalp,” I mutter.  
Ashely leans over me and smirks before starting to hobble away. “Fair enough. But at least mines real,” she grins widely and looking back at me as she walks away.  
“I was fifteen okay?” I groan, and all I get is a hearty laugh from behind me.  
“Alright, if you tell yourself that. I’ll see you around Lacroix,” Ashley calls as she finally disappears. I grumble and put my head down. Luckily the tremors in my hands have stopped, but the flower I made is still mocking me with its ragged edges. With an angry toss, it’s out of view and mind, but it still manages to taunt me with its imperfections. You’re just like mother says: Broken, rejected, a mere shadow of your father. What’s next? Becoming an artist? Abandoning your family? God knows you’ve already lost all style. I rub my temples to dismiss the thoughts and it works, needing only to create another flower to fix the mistake.


	4. Chapter 4: Angela's Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible TW for reference to physical abuse. Nothing is explicit, but is mentioned in passing.

Amélie has muscular dystrophy. I realize this fact as I’m at home from a late shift from a late patient I couldn’t quite save and I swirl around my glass full of whiskey as the ice cube clinks and charms. The tremors, increasing lack of balance and weakness, it all coordinates. But that’s a matter for another time and place, as here, I am not Dr.Ziegler, renowned surgeon, but instead, Angela. Depressed, slightly alcoholic, sitting on her couch in the dark, Angela.   
I giggle a little to myself. Oh how I do tend to fall for the worst patients and hopeless cases don’t I? First it was Maya, a charming young medical student I met in my residency. She’d moved to Guam after a minor omnic crisis there, without a second glance to me or our flowering relationship. Then there was Fareeha, the torn war soldier who I met at Overwatch through connections. She was nice, for the raw comfort that we both always sought as a result of our professions could be found in each other. Eventually, the war just changed her I suppose, and after a thrown wine bottle that cut me squarely on the cheek, I think we both realized maybe “relationship” wasn’t the right label for it all. In any case, Fareeha was the last lover I’d ever felt somewhat drawn to, and if there was anyone else, I dismissed them as quickly as they came. I’ve learned from experience that being a doctor is the greatest romantic sacrifice one can make.  
But, as I always say, Amélie is different. Not in the bubbly charismatic way like Maya, not in the gruff heroic way like Fareeha, but instead more human, more— god what’s the word, I knock my brain as I drain the glass—civilian, yes, that’s what Amélie is. She’s not a doctor, she’s not obligated by the war to firm herself against everyone, she’s just perfect, human, Amélie.  
But of course, that’s always how it starts. This one will be different, I always tell myself, knowing well that it isn’t true. My minor crush on Amélie is completely unrequited, not to mention completely frivolous and an entire violation of the Hippocratic oath inherently. Although it would be nice to have someone to hold and comfort, as Amélie doesn’t have any family or close friends, those are no excuses I chide myself because I let my thoughts wander.  
After my alcoholic crisis I’m tired, as one should be after a 12 hour shift--with no paid overtime from a surgery I should add--and it’s not long before I’ve brushed my teeth and showered and did all the things I need to do to get to bed. My head barely hits the pillow before my pager starts to buzz like hell, and I curse, reaching out. I’ve only had a bit of whiskey because although—rarely, of course—these types of things happens and I need to be ready to drive whenever a patient is in need elsewhere. Goddamn schedule shifts, I mutter under my breath as I silence the pager for the second time, rub my eyes, and slouch towards the coffee machine so it can warm. It’s all because apparently the other resident doctor, Mako, decided he didn’t want to do the barren night shifts which really just, quite frankly, fucked us all. Now there isn’t even a permanent doctor on night shifts, and the company’s too cheap to hire another doctor. We’re living on a constant cycle of pagers which makes no sense to me, but, I suppose, it does to the CEO of the hospital who has probably never stepped foot into an OR, let alone a physician’s shoes.   
I call up Moira who sleepily answers and before she can even say hello I’m mouthing into the speaker with the phone nestled into my shoulder as one hand grabs my bag of scrubs and coffee, and the other my purse.  
“Moira, get the hell up. Didn’t you hear the god verdammt pager going off?” I’m driving towards the hospital with the phone on my dash, only around twenty minutes away.  
“I’m on secretarial duties until next week when Mako will probably decides he wants to stop fucking us all and go back to night shifts.” Moira’s grumbling and I can tell shes still half asleep by the muffled tone she has.  
Crap. Of course Moira has to be on secretarial duties, which means I either have to deal with Tekharta or Mako, either of which isn’t favorable. The former hates doing testing and believes it’s all mind over matter or something of that sort, and Mako is just all types of stubborn. There’s no way if it’s a difficult case and I’m paged with him that we’re going to come to an agreement.   
“Shit,” I mutter. “I really don’t feel like dealing with Mako and his group of lackeys that follow him like some medical God.”  
“Why do you think I asked to be put on secretarial duties sweetheart?” Moira laughs dryly, and I can hear her coffee machine starting to run. “All I do now is just run papers and help make diagnosis’, and even then that’s a stretch depending on the doctor.” I pull into the hospital and don’t see any emergency vehicles; Either the patient arrived a short time ago, or it’s a long care resident whose condition just went haywire.  
“I’ve gotta go, I’m at the hospital,” I’m distracted as I turn off the car, trying to think of the “unknowns” I need to figure out, including figuring out what the hell is going on. I haven’t even gotten a debrief yet or a call from my phone, which is completely unusual. The hospital tends to call its paged doctors as soon as possible, mainly to get them thinking about everything that could be done for the patient and possibly provide direction for the nurses and other staff as need be.  
“Alright, keep me updated. It you’re gonna wake me up at two in the morning I better hear what’s going on,” Moira grumbles and the line clicks off. I gulp down the rest of my blissfully hot coffee, grabbing my scrub bag and my purse from the back of the car and briskly jogging to the medical entrance. I sigh in relief: Mako or Tekharata haven’t arrived yet. However, another nurse is waiting for me in the hallway, and she starts to finally debrief me as I jog into the locker room to drop off my purse and move into the sanitation room to scrub in. There’s already two nurses waiting for me; It either has to be a serious case or a really dry night for patients.  
“Long term patient, vision problems and muscle weakness. No known family history or medical problems.” The nurse is firing facts at me as I scrub all the way up to my shoulder with soap and hot water, and I chew on the info as she continues to speak.  
“Date of admittance?” I’m curt and expect a likewise answer in terms of tone.  
“March 4th, 2077.”  
“Status?”  
“Stable but delusional. Doesn’t recognize where they are, vision blurred and spotty. Cooperating with nurses.”  
“Prior long term residency status?”  
“Low care, only for observation.”  
I’m done scrubbing in and I’m whisked away to another hallway, through an elevator, and then finally down the hall to the room of where my patient is. I step in and blink: it’s Amélie.


	5. Amelie's Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter names are always welcome! I can never think of good ones, so if you provide the name I'll switch the given chapter over. I'll keep the perspectives in parenthesis' () so you know whos who.

My visions swaying firmly with little spots dancing around. It’s like a cupcake with blurry frosting and dark black sprinkles. I like cupcakes.

“She keeps muttering about cupcakes,” a nurse warns someone in the room who’s a blurry spot off in the distance. I crack a slight smile and don’t resist when someone shines what I think is a light in my eyes. That’s mean, I think even as I only squint my eyes a little.

“Amélie? Can you hear me? It’s Angela, Dr.Ziegler.” Someone’s leaning in close. They smell nice and are pretty. It has to be Dr.Ziegler.

“‘eah I ‘an youre ‘retty”, I giggle deliriously. “ ‘‘nd you ‘mell nice.”

“When did this start?” The pretty doctor asks someone and I can’t be bothered to listen to the reply because the spot that’s become Angela is really pretty. Like the cherry on the top of a cupcake.

“Amélie, I need you to raise your right arm,” Angela instructs, and as loopy as I am I still pick it up easily. “Now the other one please.” I do it and I grin. I look like I’m on a rollercoaster. A rollercoaster full of cupcakes.

“Amélie we’re going to have to give you a CT scan. You’re going to be taken to another room to do so. Do you understand me?” Angela’s talking like I’m a child. I’m not a child. I can do tests.

“‘M not a ‘hild,” I slur but still nodding. The nurses are taking an IV out of me I think and I’m being rolled somewhere. The cupcake sprinkles are bigger here, and I smile wider. There’s prettier colors here too. Someone eventually lifts me onto a tray and I feel like cupcake dough. Or brownies. Or cookies. Something you bake.

A nurse who’s a different color spot than the pretty doctor leans in close. “I need you to hold your breath when I say so. Do you understand?” She speaks clearly but doesn’t smell as nice as the doctor. I don’t like her color as much as Angela’s.

“‘Mm hmm,” I nod. The nurse leaves and a voice comes over a scratchy intercom. It’s bad. I don’t like the sound.

“Hold your breath, and release when I say,” the voice screeches. I don’t like this voice. But I don't want to get in trouble, so I take a really really really deep breath and hold it. The machine moves and whirs and it makes me feel weird. I feel like a baking cupcake. Or a rocket ship. With black dots of stars.

The rocket stops and the mean scratchy voice says I can breathe. I smirk a little as another blurry spot comes in and rolls me onto a stretcher. It’s funny. They roll me somewhere again with prettier colors this time. It's like lots of cupcakes, all different colors with the same sprinkles. There's another time when I’m rolled back and I blink up at who I think is Angela. I lick my lips.

“There's no sign of a tumor or anything apart from minor neuron loss, which is caused by her age.” Someone's murmuring big words, and then pretty doctor is talking to her and my head swims. If I squint hard enough she's in focus enough that I can see her eyes. Pretty, I think.

The doctor leans in close. “Amelie, how do you feel?”

“Oui, je suis correct,” French is hot. I’m hot.

“Amelie, I don’t understand,” the doctor blinks. “Can you give me a response in English?”

I just smile as big as I can in response and try to reach my hand up. Angela would probably feel really nice in my arms. And really warm. And she smells nice.

“Amelie, can you hear me?” I’m done with this game. Angela hasn't gotten my clues. I sit up suddenly and look around, my vision throbbing with clarity and then spots and back again. 

“Pourquoi est’que tu regarde a moi comme ca?” I accuse, looking around. There's doctors swarming me and saying things and then pure, perfect, Angie's voice rises above it all.

“Everyone can you just back the hell up?” She hisses and the room goes quiet. It's like when my mom would scold me and my siblings. I don’t like it. I recoil. “Amélie I need you to lay back down. Do you understand?” Her tone is clinical and cold. I don’t like it. I want the cupcakes back.

I nod. It’s hard to lay back with all the wires but the doctor helps me with a reassuring hand on my back. She’s nice. I look at her through blurry eyes and suddenly I feel drowsy. I should sleep—no,  _ need _ to sleep, I think, blinking up at Angela. She’s smiling, I can see through my blurry eyes. I like her smile. But it’s all too soon my eyes have drifted shut and I’m disappearing and I’m asleep.


	6. Angela's Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops these two chapters are full of some good 4K angst LOL. It's gonna get a lot worse before it gets better. As a preface, the next few chapters may contain some alcoholic and depressive tendencies, but I'll be sure to bold anything that could be a trigger.  
> Also, the smut chapter that's gonna be coming in about a month(gotta wait you thirstys ;) ) will be **completely optional**. It won't matter to the plot, but you can read it because it does solidify some emotional stuff and bad coping mechanisms. As per usual it'll be tagged when it happens.

Amelies fallen asleep and I can’t help but think how cute she is. It’s perverted, to view your patient as cute or anything but unbiased, but at three in the morning I can’t bring myself to care. All the other doctors and nurses have left for other, sparsely populated, patients, and I know I shouldn’t but I trace my hand through Amelie's hair and give her a peck on the forehead. She leans into the touch and my heart warms, making me want to stay even more than I thought was possible, but I can’t. I need to actually figure out what’s going on.

My first thought of course is to bother Moira. If she’s going to be pissed at me because I woke her up once, a second time wouldn’t hurt. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” she sighs when she answers on the third ring of her phone, far too awake to have fallen asleep. The escapade with Amélie had taken only about 45 minutes, so of course Moira would still be awake.

“Patients name was Amélie Lacroix, a long term care resident originally taken in for only observation-“

“And the subject of your soon to be biggest lawsuit and scandal if your dreams come true,” Moira dryly chuckles with a voice like sandpaper. 

“ _ Moira _ , professionalism,” I hiss, starting to send the digital medical file to her over text.

“You say that like you’re a saint,” she nonchalantly as possible tells me. There’s a pause. “ _ Shit _ . You gave her  _ 70 milligrams of propofol _ ? ”

I rub my temples, feeling the scratchy note of Mako’s lackeys trilling everytime I’d called an order in the back of my mind. “Tell that to Jamison Fawkes, who’s apparently Mako’s newest assistant. He wouldn’t shut up about proper delusional patient precautions with the most god forsaken voice known to mankind. I just gave in and administered most of it in a quick burst then had it diluted with some fluids.”

I hear some swiping and the sound of a coffee machine in the background, a sigh quickly following. “Well, you’ve certainly got your work cut out for you sunshine. Did you see the other results that came back?”

“Yeah yeah,” It’s my turn to cut her off. “She’s got muscular dystrophy, primarily in the knees and lower joints. It won’t be long until it starts to affect her other muscles, but we can hope to delay it by prescribing occupational therapy.” I sigh, realizing how Amelie’s case has taken a turn from  _ cautious observation  _ to  _ unknown possibilities _ , which is the worst kind of stage to be in for a patient. Anything could happen, from tumor growth to rapid onset organ failure to, in the miraculous case I’m still hoping for, complete recovery. “Other than that I don’t even know where to start. She’ll be waking up in about a hours time if I’m correct, I’ll see how she is then.”

Moira lets out a chime in thought, obviously still trying to clamp together something concrete. “Are you  _ sure _ her family doesn’t have a history of macular degeneration or vision problems?”

“I don’t think so. The nurses said they found her on the floor, unconscious, so she may have fallen and given herself a concussion.”

“But then a nurse should’ve found her faster, especially after the sound of impact.” Moira reminds me.

I sigh as I realize Moiras right and look at the clock. “I’ve got to go, Amélie will be waking up in around a hour and I still need to go read through her medical file. I want to be there when she wakes up.”

“Why? So you can swoon her with your stethoscope and eye bags?” Moira laughs heartily, and I can tell she’s extremely sleep deprived by the way she jokes. It’s far too loose and thoughtless for Moira to be fully awake. “Ah yes, Amélie, do you love you my scrubs? They’re old and raggedy but that will not matter once you are in my arms,” Moira’s practically wheezing as she mocks me with the most overdone and fake Swiss accent I’ve ever heard.

“ _ Goodbye _ , Moira,” I smile begrudgingly as I click off the line and start to walk towards the secretarial desk.

“Dr.Ziegler,” the disarrayed secretary greets as I walk towards her. It’s a woman tonight, with dark chestnut skin and a beautiful smile. Regardless of her well put together appearance, I can still tell how much the schedule shifts are affecting her. I know all too well from my personal experiences.

“Can you tell me who was on shift on the sixth floor in the long term care unit at,” I glance at the clock: Three AM. The nurses paged for a doctor once they found Amélie, but finding someone would’ve taken ten to fifteen minutes, and it took me around thirty minutes to get to the hospital. Not to mention the entire ordeal with Amélie itself took around a hour. I’ll estimate. “Mm, 1:00 AM?” 

The secretary types steadily into what I assume to be the staff records, and I try to remember if I’ve seen her before. I don’t remember there being a new secretary hired, so it annoys me that I can’t even think of this woman’s name.

“Hm, it says nurses Olivia Colomar and Jesse McCree are scheduled for then, and are in fact there until 5:00 AM.” The secretary smiles at me in the most kind manner I’ve practically ever experienced, and I smile a little back.

“Can you page them for me? Say Dr.Angela Ziegler needs their input and experience with a patient. Or would it be better or if I just visited the facility?”

“You might not be able to gain access from the outside. Usually you either have to be very high clearance, and at eleven each night the doors lock from the outside.” The woman paints a small frown on her lips, but looks at me still with an eager intensity. “You can try though,” she smiles.

I laugh. The secretary  _ definitely _ must be new. She doesn’t even know who I am, and that’s the biggest surprise of them all. “Mm, well I have level five clearances,” and the woman’s smile falls into a look of astonishment.

“Uh-um, yes I think that would be sufficient,” The secretary stutters and blushes a little. “I’ll tell the nurses to be ready for your arrival.” I smile a little bigger and cock my head.

“That’d be nice. Thanks a lot,” I chirp as I glance at the clock: 3:15. I’ve got roughly thirty minutes to go interrogate the nurses and return. Plenty of time, I think in that sort of way that doctors do even when there  _ isn’t _ time to spare. 

The walk is cold and dark, as one would expect from it being 3 AM in early March. However, luckily, it’s as simple as crossing the street and waving my keycard over the security door, so I don’t have to deal with the inclimate weather for long. The place is barren and quiet, apart from the beeping of heart monitors and the wheezing of breathing machines, and it’s uncomfortable. I don’t like the quiet, because wherever it lurks there's trouble hiding in its embrace. 

Even the elevator doesn’t have any music. The only possible accompaniment is the steel rattling of the car as it squeaks and shutters up to the sixth floor. It’s far too erry for me to be at ease, and even though I’m anxious for Amélie and my gut churns with unknown fear and loss, I blame it on the quiet that seems to surround me at every turn.

Jesse and Olivia are waiting for me in the nurse ward, and their bright baby blue scrubs comfort me from the sterile white of the floor. I’ll have to persuade the committee to allow the halls to be painted some other color but white. Perhaps a lilac? A mint green? I’m distracted and I refocus, breathing in.

“Efi paged us; What seems to be the problem doc?” Olivia, a Hispanic woman with purple dyed tips to her shoulders and the undersides shaved, is kicked back in a chair with her feet on the table. I once asked her why she lived to be so sassy and, in a sense, cliche, and her response was quick fired and sure:  _ Ah doc, I  _ live _ to be a stereotype. I want people to see me and think “there’s the telenova woman,” the sassy, big-mouthed, cliche hispanic. Because then, if those people assume I am all that I seem to be on the outside, I know who not to make friends with _ . Olivia had laughed heartily after that response, and I guess she was right. If people wanted to assume who she was based on a stereotype then so be it, but they wouldn’t be a friend of hers—not a true one anyways.

“Efi?” I question, cocking my head. I don’t know anyone by that name in the facility, or at least I can’t recall them.

“The new secretary on night shifts,” Jesse calls, loudly muttering afterwards about how we can magically afford a new one but not another doctor to stop screwing up the schedule.

I blink. So  _ that's _ who I’d encountered a few minutes ago. No wonder she didn’t know me. “Hmm. Did you report a patient by the name of Amélie Lacroix? She was transferred over to across the street around 1:00-1:30 because a nurse reported her condition unstable and worsening.” I’m trying to keep my voice level, even though I’m anxious for some sort of lead on Amélie’s case. Screw the rules; For me right now this case takes priority.

Jesse steps off from where he was leaning back on the wall, a toothpick dangling from his upper lip. He’s got a closely shaved beard, and I’m sure if it wasn’t a sanitary issue he’d immediately grow it out.

“Olivia found her in her room, knocked out cold on the floor,” Jesse drawls. “She can tell you about it, the only thing I really did was report her to the higher-ups and wait for a stretcher.” He knocks his head in the direction of Olivia, who frowns a little.

“Yeah, round one I was coming by to make sure all the doors and that were closed and nobody was getting out. Amy’s door was open so I just snuck a peek in there, and boom, she’s laying on the floor. No blood, no vomit, no nothing except for a bump on her head from what I’m assuming to be the impact. While the med lackeys were running around like rats trying to get a bed and an IV and blah blah blah,” Olivia drones, knowing full well those lackeys were going to take full credit for the entire deal. It was annoying as hell, because those people would go on to be famous TV doctors, and the rest of us would be left in the dust without a single idea to credit towards ourselves. “Anyways, so I’m trying to stabilize Amy by holding her head up, and she starts waking up and muttering something about her legs. Just like random things about how they hurt or how they were weak or something. Lotta weird stuff.” 

I’m jotting down all this information, and I stick my mini notepad back into my pocket. “Amélie was delusional in the hospital, and we gave her a CT scan but there wasn’t anything unusual in the brain area. Do you think it’s possible she has a concussion?”

Jesse frowns a little. “Well the other nurses were startin’ to say how she was gettin’ less mobile, so most likely yeah.” He scratches his stubble in thought, and looks off in the distance. “Hm, I would say investigate the legs though. If Amy fell because of increasing muscle weakness it could be a sign of something worse like cancer y’know?” I almost want to tell them how Amélie has one of the rarest cases of muscular dystrophy ever reported, but I remember I’m technically not even supposed to  _ be _ here. The typical protocol is to page the people from the other building and only if very necessary have them come to you, not vice versa. Another security issue I suppose.

“Well, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” I sigh, glancing at my watch to check the time. “I have to get going, she’ll be waking up in a couple of minutes. I want to be there to investigate any other abnormalities as soon as she regains consciousness.” Olivia and Jesse nod me off, and I realize just how many people I’ve dragged into this case, both emotionally and physically. I chew on that thought as I walk over, and it’s almost ironic. The cases of heartthrob but sure diagnosis’ are immediately pitied, but with the addition of a rare unknown, it suddenly becomes more capitaving. Perhaps, I think solemnly, that's the reason why I’m fascinated with Amelie: She's the first person I’ve met in several years that's shrouded in mystery and isolation. She almost reminds me of myself.

Amelie is still sleeping lightly, even after I take the time to deeply scrub my hands and grab her medical file. I sit by her bedside, folder open, and I scan through to make sure I’m not missing any details.  _ No medical history _ ,  _ no family problems _ ,  _ no history of substance dependance _ ;  _ Gott verdammt  _ Amelie, your seemingly infinite perfection is ironically a drawback, I smile with a slight shake of my head. In what seems to be a response, Amelie groans and tilts her head a little bit with the slightest up-twitch of her mouth. Her eyes flutter open with a slow pause, squinting at me and her hand tries to reach out a little. It’s barely noticeable, but I still observe the motion quietly, inching my own ever so closer.

“What happened?” Amelie’s voice creaks, and I stand to grab her a glass of water I’d set on a table for when she woke. Without a sound, I help her sit up a little with the assistance of the automatic functions the bed comes with, and hand her the glass of water. Amelie takes a gulp as I scooch my chair a little closer to her and sit again.

“It appears you had a fall. Nurse Olivia found you at one am, appearing to have fallen onto the floor. We delivered you to this facility, where you were delirious and eventually fell asleep--I can’t say I  _ sedated _ her, because I didn’t really. It was only because of that jackass Jamison that I had to administer the medication.  _ Fell asleep _ is an appropriate euphemism, if you even consider it one in this situation. “Do you recall anything before or during the incident?” I blink in concern as Amelie seems to subtly scrunch her face in thought, cocking her head in concentration. There's a moment of quiet as I scold myself for the perverted thoughts of how adorable she is that arise without any prodding from my, conscious, end.

“The last thing I recall is experiencing some bad muscle tremors. I was in the rec center around eleven, when a nurse announced we had to return to our rooms. I’d hobbled to my room with the assistance of my walker and got into bed. Then I remember hearing something strange, I don’t know what, it was just  _ odd _ and unsettling, and then I tried to get up and I guess it was then I fell.” Amelie stutters a little at the end. “It’s all a little fuzzy to be honest.”

I pull out my notepad again and start to jot down stuff. “You were experiencing worse muscle tremors? Are you still able to be mobile with the assistance of your walker? Prior to the fall, did you take any medications given by the staff? Maybe an Advil, cold medicine, things like that?” My tone is cool and collected, a cruel betrayal of the internal panicking I’m experiencing. If the muscle tremors are getting worse it could mean fast-set muscular dystrophy, which in itself is incredibly rare. That would mean Amelie only had a number of months to a year to live.

“Yes?” It’s a clear question, and I give a look that indicates I want her to elaborate. “The tremors get so bad sometimes I can hardly move, but the walker helps. I can still move to my room and to the rec center with relative ease if that’s what you mean.” Amelie looks at the ceiling and pauses in thought. “I don’t recall taking any medication.” She finally recounts with a bite of her lip. I jot it all down with my notepad.

“Mm, alright. Do you experience any pain, including, as patients have described, shoots or quick bursts? If so, are they very severe, or just aches?” Amelie’s trying to catch a glance of what I’m writing, and I give her a reassuring smile. It’s not much, but it’s the best I can give her right now. There's a simmer of thick, pining, emotions between us, and I lick my lips before gently moving a little closer. We’re almost grazing hands now, and the silence feels full of unsaid words and restraining burdens.

“Not...usually. On Wednesday, in the morning, I went to get lunch and there was this sharp point of pain in my left calf. I sat down for a minute, and the pain was relieved.” Amelie’s moved our hands slightly together, just enough so we’re slightly overlapping, and I clear my throat.

“Well, um,I promise this isn’t 21 questions, so this’ll be the final one for now,”I joke with an awkward laugh, receiving a small smile in response from Amelie. “Any current nausea, vision problems, headaches, things like that?”

“I have a minor headache, but I suppose one experiences that when they fall onto a linoleum floor,” Amelie responds coyly. The room goes silent for a moment and I start to stand, but Amelie continues, voice waving. “Angela, do you think I’m sick?” I breathe out with a small frown as the look I receive is one of yearning and fear.

“I think you’re as sick as one can hope to be in a hospital,” I smile, my hand overlapping hers even more now.

“No, I mean  _ sick _ . I’m here for a week, then two, now three?” There's fear in every word of Amelie’s and I let out a sigh. My attempt to hide the news from her has failed. “Am I  _ dying _ Angela?” That final sentence hits me the hardest. I knew this time would come, but it’s hardest to hear in reality, in the spur of the moment when Amelie’s case decided to take a deeper turn. But for me, I realize, the biggest pill to choke down is that Amelie is truly dying right before my eyes. With Fareeha, or Maya, I could ignore the signs, I could ignore any indirect movement of something wrong, but here? There is nothing but clear cut emotions and the burden I bear as a physician.

“Doctor?” She snaps me out of my thoughts, and I focus in again as my shoulders slump.

“To be honest, you are,” I whisper, almost inaudibly.

A beat. It feels like an eternity in the swirl of emotions that surround the room. “How long?” Is Amelie's short response with saddened, fearful, eyes. I can’t help but see a glimmer of something else as she reaches out and clutches my hand somehow harder.

“Six to eighteen months currently. I’m not sure you want to know what you have,” I look away as Amelie seemingly grasps my hand harder. The pining is somehow even more intense here, in this room of pain and sorrow and unlocked hearts. For the first time in years, I want to cry. Instead, I swallow hard.

“Tell me.” Amelies voice is icy, so much so it makes my heart skip a beat.

“You have muscular dystrophy. If it continues on this path, you may only have four-six months.” My eyes water a little and I look away. Amelie somehow squeezes my hand harder, and another one, cold and unforgiving, traces my face so it can turn me towards her. God, I shouldn’t be doing this, at four thirty in the morning with a patient I shouldn't even be with, but I  _ don’t care _ . The silence continues to slump over us for a minute before one of us dares to speak again.

“Then let me live like life is going to end tomorrow,” Amelie’s watery brown eyes lock with my steel blue ones, and she whispers so quietly I can barely hear her over the thickness the room holds. She leans toward me and I close my eyes, and then our lips are touching with the firm contrast that can’t be described, can’t be recounted, can only be experienced in the ambience of toil and fear and unsaid yearning and love and loss. Amelie's lips are cool and soft against my tight, rough, ones, and her hand that was on my cheek threads through my hair a little as she continues to kiss me, kiss me like we’re not a doctor and patient, kiss me like our statuses and our burdens don’t matter, kiss me as if the world has stopped and this is all that matters. It’s both a moment and an eternity when we seperate, and I’m blushing. Both Amelie and I look away, the yearning somehow stronger here, even though it seems to be that the buildup of tension and the wall of broken promises we’ve created has been finally shifted in some way.

“I have to leave, I’m not even supposed to stay after you’ve been stabilized. You’ll stay on your current floor for now, but you’ll have to go to tri-weekly occupational therapy. In a week we might be able to discharge you, but you’d have to have an aid that comes around twice a week to ensure your mobility.” There's no response from Amelie's end, and my heart pounds in my ears.

“Go,” she commands with the iciest voice I’ve ever heard her use. It scares me, in the way that it finalizes our relationship, cauterizes any hope of helping each other or developing our friendship. It’s here I realize that’s the only thing I’ve wanted for years, to have a true friend, and I’ve drove any hope of that occurring away. The kiss may have been Amelie's idea, but my open enjoyment is the thing that’s stuck into this frail, broken, ground of our feelings.

“Amelie I’m sorry I did-”

“Go,” Amelie repeats, even firmer. We don't look at each other and I sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I finally whisper as I let myself out.


End file.
